


we queens

by dollsome



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 19:02:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1176722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollsome/pseuds/dollsome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Happiness is the one thing we queens can never have.</i> Catherine and Mary are not so very different. (Character study set during 1.11.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	we queens

**Author's Note:**

> Good heavens, this took forever to write! Probably because it involved an irrational amount of thinking, as opposed to just spewing out some OTP banter and calling it a day. (That's the life!) Anyway, one thing I've been super into about the past few episodes of Reign: the way Catherine/Henry has been presented as this really interesting cautionary tale for Mary and the way she chooses to pursue her relationships with Bash and Francis.
> 
> And that mirror sequence at the end of "Inquisition"? That is the stuff of my TV fangirl dreams! So I just had to do the feels-y introspective fic thing. Really, I had no choice.

_Happiness is the one thing we queens can never have._  
(1.09)  
  
 _And if you’re still breathing you’re the lucky ones  
‘Cause most of us are heaving through corrupted lungs  
Setting fire to our insides for fun  
Collecting names of the lovers that went wrong  
The lovers that went wrong_  
(Daughter, “Youth”)  
  
 _In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman  
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish._  
(Sylvia Plath, “Mirror”)  
  
  
  
  
Bash looks at Mary with such certainty, as if she is all he could ever dream of needing. It makes her want to run away and draw him closer all at once. “Have you ever considered what might have been,” he asks, “if I were the dauphin when you came to court, instead of my brother? If you came with your heart open, ready to love me ...”  
  
Mary has no room in her heart for what might have been; not after what she’s lost. Greer saves her from having to say so aloud, and Mary is grateful for that. She wants to be always truthful, and never cold, and that’s starting to seem an impossible thing.  
  
  
+  
  
  
There is no resting in each other’s arms afterward. They never got into the habit, and it will certainly take more than her impending death to change that. They don’t talk either, silent as strangers and both a little embarrassed.  
  
Catherine has never been sentimental. (Still. All of those years, wasted.)  
  
Now that it is too late to do much damage, she decides to continue their experiment with honesty. Surely it won’t do any harm.  
  
“When I was quite young,” she says, “before I came to France to be your wife, I was held hostage for some time.”  
  
She feels him shift in bed, turning on one side to look at her. “I remember hearing of it.”  
  
“My keepers were not—” She tries to find a way to phrase it delicately. Henry has proven himself so sensitive today. “— _gentle_  men, and I wasn’t as good defending myself as I’ve become since. In the early days of our marriage, if I flinched at your touch—” She realizes she’s begun twisting the blanket between her fingers, and cannot quite bring herself to stop. “—you were a strong young man, just as they were. It was hard to let go of the memory.”  
  
There. Let her leave him the truth before she dies. Call it a parting gift.  
  
He breathes out sharply. “Why did you never tell me?”  
  
“Ah, yes, every king’s dream. To have a ruined wife. I’m sure you would have reacted well to the news.” She worries the blanket between her fingers, grateful for the distraction.  
  
Until he puts his hand on top of hers, stilling the motion. He demands, “Will you always insist upon thinking me a monster?”  
  
She’s hurt him now.  
  
“I was scared, Henry,” she snaps. “I didn’t want to lose you.”  
  
And, well. They both know very well how that turned out.  
  
After a moment, he twines his fingers with hers. He’s very careful about it. His dark eyes are full of such feeling – for her. (Finally, for her.) It quickens her heart, absurdly, as if she’s young again.  
  
But of course neither of them can ever be that.  
  
“Twenty five years,” he says, not unkindly, “and at last we start telling the truth. What else are you hiding from me?”  
  
She laughs, wry. “Do you really want to go down that road?”  
  
“On second thought,” he says with a slight smile, “not just yet,” and takes her in his arms.  
  
She lets herself get lost in the kiss for just a moment. Indulging Henry has never worked out for anyone. It’s the surest way to convince him you’re worthless. (Unless you're Diane, but Catherine blames heathen magics there, for the woman is hardly exceptional otherwise.)  
  
Then she pulls away from him, warmly enough to give him no reason to fuss, and arises to dress.  
  
This has bought her some time. She can tell by the silence, by the way he touched her. Sweetly for once. Or perhaps it is not the first time; only the first time she was not too eaten up with worry to notice. The point is, she’s distracted him. He won’t keep digging until he finds out about Richard. About the baby who didn’t die. Who grew up to haunt these walls.  
  
She pins her hair back up.  
  
Using the silence, she dares him to kill her now. He does have a heart and a place for her in it, somewhere buried deep. She knows the feeling, damn him.  
  
Once she’s straightened herself up, she returns to him. He looks thoughtful and faraway. She knows it’s on her account for once, and knowing it softens her. Twenty five years, and so much pain. What they might have avoided if they’d only been brave enough to speak what was in their hearts. She will never forgive him for what he’s put her through, true, but she’s not averse to living a gentler kind of lie. ( _Living_ being the operative word.)  
  
So she kisses him like any wife would kiss her beloved husband goodbye.  
  
And just as she’d hoped, Henry does not let her go. “I don’t want to do this to you.”  
  
So brave and so weak. She’s proud of him for the first time in years. “Then don’t.”  
  
  
+  
  
  
All it takes is five minutes in a room with Henry and Catherine to make Mary sure.  
  
 _My heart is open,_  she told Bash and meant it, for what other choice does she have? She cannot – will not – have her marriage turn to distrust and hatred. She knows very well the damage that does. A country rotten at its heart. She cannot get the image out of her head of Catherine’s face covered in blood.  
  
Not so long ago Bash kissed her beside a fresh grave, his hand on her face, and left blood on her cheek. Mary did not realize until she came home to her mirror. She wiped it off carefully, and felt like crying, and didn’t cry. She wonders if Catherine is doing that now.  
  
But it’s different. It’s different.  
  
Mary will not resent the life she’s chosen. She meant what she said to Bash. She cares for him. He’s maddening and wonderful and unexpected, and she is proud to have him stand by her side. He has given her his heart. She will cherish the gift. They will be happy together.  
  
Still, she looks into the mirror and is surprised by how grown up she looks. Her eyes are tired and dim. She does not know how to be bright anymore, not with Aylee dead. But queens get no time to mourn.  
  
And she wonders—a part of her always wonders—where Francis is right now. What he’s doing. If he’s wondering about her.  
  
She hopes he’s happy, or at least seeking out the chance of happiness.  
  
(There is a part of her, small and dark, that yearns for his misery. That hopes he will always feel as she does, as if a piece of soul has been torn out and he will never be whole or peaceful again.   
  
He was willing to die, he knew and invited it, so long as he could be with her. If only she had given in, given in like Catherine said she would—)  
  
She always stops herself when these thoughts come. She remembers him on a sunlit day, holding her hand, beaming and promising her everything. She remembers how they ran together, hand in hand like happy children, as if the years ahead could not touch them.  
  
She tells herself the memory is enough.  
  
  
+  
  
  
Once, Catherine supposes, she was as ridiculous as Mary is now. In that first year, when there was still every chance at a baby and therefore no real reason to be afraid.  
  
She and Henry made a habit of walks in the moonlight back then. He was an active young man, happier in the fresh air than a room, and did not take quite kindly to tending to matters of state all day. Catherine didn’t understand – she much preferred rooms to nature (rooms with expensive things in them, to be precise) – but she was willing to indulge him.  
  
The first time Richard Delacroix came to Catherine’s attention, it was Henry’s fault.  
  
“Richard thinks you’re beautiful.” Even then, Henry was always trying to get under her skin. Testing her. She was confident, in the early days, of her ability to pass.  
  
This particular news held no excitement. She had a husband to charm, and there was no benefit in letting her attention wander. “Did he tell you so?”  
  
“He didn’t have to. It’s obvious. His eyes get a very stupid look in them whenever you’re mentioned.”  
  
“That’s flattering. Am I mentioned often?”  
  
“You  _are_  my wife. I have to bring you up sometimes.”  
  
What a little flush of pride she felt at  _wife_. How careful she was not to show it.  
  
“Romantic,” she remarked dryly.  
  
He laughed and kissed her, hard and sudden and sure, his hands claiming her waist. She felt it – the sudden lurch, the impulse to flee – and forced herself still. It was not his fault.  
  
He noticed anyway, the laughter disappearing from his face. It made him look uncertain, more a boy than a man for once. His hands relaxed – still on her waist, but gentle now. As if she was a meek, breakable thing. God, she hated that.  
  
“Of course,” he added casually, a joke to clear the air, “I’d run him through if he ever acted on it.”  
  
She smirks to show him all is forgiven. “If I didn’t beat you to it.”  
  
“So you don’t like him, then?”  
  
“Like him? We’ve barely spoken two words to each other. And what good are his stupid eyes to me? I hope you know I have higher standards than that.”  
  
Henry laughed. “He  _is_  my friend. Go easy on him.”  
  
“I never developed the habit of going easy on anybody. I’m not starting now.”  
  
“Do you know, you’re a bit terrifying.”  
  
A much better token of affection, Catherine thought, than stupid lovelorn eyes. “Thank you.”  
  
He laughed again. It seems now he was always laughing in those days, so pleased by her sharp wit, as if he’d expected a fool and couldn’t believe his good luck.  
  
She’d felt lucky too, for a time.  
  
  
+  
  
  
She washes the slain guard’s blood off her face. Yet another token of affection from her husband.

 

+

 

Later, she lets down her hair.  
  
It’s a surprise to see herself so. She does not wonder, looking in the mirror, that Henry’s eyes softened at the sight of her. She looks almost young. Younger than she feels, in any case. Perhaps to him it was like seeing a ghost. This castle is full with ghosts who are not really ghosts; why shouldn’t she rank among them?  
  
She usually performs her toilette with quick efficiency. She’s always had very little interest in whoever she might be beneath the careful layers of Catherine de’ Medici, Queen of France.  
  
Tonight, she takes the time to look.  
  
If things had gone differently, perhaps she would be in Henry’s bed right now. Richard would be free, with his whole life ahead of him instead of mere hours. Poor Nostradamus too; hopefully Henry will abandon his vendetta, but the seer will never be truly safe at court with Catherine’s taint upon him. In truth, she doesn’t know how she keeps winning the devotion of men far too noble for her. She prefers Henry, in a strange way. Hurting him is an accomplishment, not a reason for guilt. Their souls are the same.  
  
The poison awaits her in its pretty little box, courtesy of her dear family. Eager to still her Medici blood.  
  
How displeased Henry will be that she robbed him of his execution. The satisfaction is almost worth dying for. If it weren’t for the children, she would be glad to do it.  
  
She has not been allowed to see the little ones since she was imprisoned. Now she will never see them again, for no reason other than Henry’s cruelty. They will miss her, at least; her boys have known only her kindness. She hates to leave them with their father, especially now that he’s shown just how little he cares for them.  
  
Elisabeth is far away, a wife herself now; Catherine dearly hopes she has better luck.  
  
And that poor girl – the baby marked by Catherine’s sin, mutilated and abused, twisted into an ugly, violent thing–  
  
But there is no use in thinking of her now. Any hope for her has passed.  
  
So Catherine thinks of Francis. Despite his threats, despite his anger and disappointment in her, he never would have let this happen. Not her darling boy. She hopes he will understand in time that everything she has done was for love of him. She wishes she could see his face one more time.  
  
Her mind rests, at last, upon Mary. Sweet brave Mary, who is learning to be cruel. Catherine is rather proud of her. But the girl has good instincts when it comes to knowing her own heart, which is something Catherine has always lacked. ( _I would not have killed you or put you aside. I was in love with you._ ) Mary will realize her mistake with Bash – too late, it seems, but she will realize it – and return to Francis in time.  
  
It’s an inspiring thought.  
  
  
+  
  
  
The blade is cool against Mary’s throat, and Catherine’s voice turns softer with each word, lulling and deathly as the poison.  
  
 _I know death takes a bit longer,_  Catherine murmurs into her hair, a mother’s whisper,  _but I didn't want to be cruel._  The awful thing is that she means it, she means it, Mary knows— _I promise that you'll feel no pain._  
  
  
+  
  
  
When Mary was seven, she fell and bloodied her knees. Chasing after Francis, of course.  
  
Catherine was the one to comfort her. She took her to the infirmary and dismissed the physician, insisting that she could handle the matter perfectly well herself.  
  
Mary’s thoughts were all of Francis, who was still out beneath the blue sky, running faster and farther, probably not missing her a bit. The unfairness of it made her eyes sting with tears.  
  
Dabbing a damp handkerchief upon Mary’s knee, Catherine said, “There there, child. Don’t cry.”  
  
“I’m not crying because I’m sad,” Mary protested, so offended at the idea that she forgot who she was talking to. “He just makes me so  _angry_.”  
  
Catherine smiled. “A girl after my own heart.”  
  
“He’s such a  _prat_!” At last, she remembered her audience. Quickly, she said, “I’m sorry.”  
  
Catherine shrugged as if she was very used to hearing her sons called prats and it was no real matter.  
  
Mary was encouraged. “It’s not fair – he knows he can run faster than I do, and still he never waits for me.”  
  
“Men are never taught to wait, I’m afraid. It’s a woman’s art.” Catherine made her face level with Mary’s, her eyes serious and bright. “So you must practice running. That’s all there is to it. Let those little legs grow strong, and you shall catch up to him. That will show him, now, won’t it?”  
  
Mary loved Catherine back then. She was kind, warmer than Mary’s own mother. She would smile at Mary sometimes in a sneaky way that suggested the two of them understood each other completely. Mary liked that. If you were a child, most people treated you like an idiot.  
  
“You’re very wise,” Mary said. She thought it a rather good compliment, something that all grown up people would like to hear. Mary wanted to be wise, but knew she would have to wait a few years at least.  
  
“We queens must stick together, Mary,” Catherine replied, and did not seem to mind it at all that Mary’s blood was on her hands.


End file.
